


Slippery Road

by Temaris



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drinking competitions, Drunken Shenanigans, Pegasus Galaxy, inebriation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-03
Updated: 2009-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not as thunk as he drinks he is.  He's *much* thunker than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slippery Road

John knew it was a bad idea to take the glass of orange liquid. He knew, even as hands pounded tables, drink, drink, drink! that he was going to regret it. He stared into the barkeeper’s eyes and knocked it back. It was thick and sweet, with an odd sort of bitter aftertaste. If it hadn’t been clear and orange with little bubbles rising to the surface he’d have wondered...

He slammed the glass back down and swallowed, a roar went up and he held out his hand for the next glass. This time, something green and thin, tasting almost like gasoline. The smell that came off it felt like he was inhaling the alcohol instead of drinking it — what the hell was in it to be _that_ volatile? He blinked a couple of times as the room swung out of focus, then slapped one hand down with his opponent’s and drank.

Across the table from him the bar keeper lifted the glass to his mouth, tilted, swayed, missed his mouth and collapsed heavily onto the table. Another roar filled the air and John grinned and desperately swallowed, trying not to puke as he was hoisted in the air and taken to the bar. He waved expansively and nearly followed his arm in the long arc, clean off the edge of the narrow bar but for an unexpected tug on his waist. “Drinks are on the house,” he yelled, or at least did his best, though he couldn’t help wondering how much was actually intelligible, but they seemed to get it what he meant. At any rate, there was a general rush for the bar.

He dropped from standing to sitting on the edge of the bar with a thud, distantly wondering why it hadn’t hurt, and considered curling up right there and falling asleep. The slick, shiny wood looked pretty comfy. He pulled his legs up and prepared to curl up, one arm crooked under his head.

“Oh, no you don’t, Major,” someone said firmly, and tugged at his hips. He came down easily off the bar, his whole body sliding right down McKay’s, who was standing in front of him.

“Hey Ro’ney,” he slurred happily, and leaned on him. Rodney was warm and solid. Much more comfortable than the bar. He closed his eyes and was just sinking into contented slumber when the bed moved out from under him.

“Wake up, Major, I’m not one of your floozies, nor am I your personal leaning post.”

“Aw, Rodney, I was sleeping.”

“Not unless you’re talking in your sleep you’re not. Come on, _move_.”

John leaned in closer and wound his arms around Rodney’s waist, feeling loose and mellow. Also kind of dizzy and horny, but not enough of either to do anything about them. “Mmm,” he hummed contentedly and took a deep breath then sighed it into Rodney’s neck.

“Oh, for god’s sake, do I have to do _everything_ myself? Fine, whatever. Come on, Major, we’ll find you a nice comfy puddlejumper to sleep it off in.”

Rodney started to back away, and John would have protested except that the man did something too complicated for John’s alcohol soused brain to keep up with, and ended up with an arm over Rodney’s shoulder, and one of Rodney’s arms around his waist in a death grip. Rodney was muttering darkly and largely incomprehensibly as he barged through the cheerily plastered crowd (getting more drunk by the second, while the barkeeper was passed out and unable to stop them helping themselves to his stock. John felt kind of bad about that.)

“Should stop them drinking,” he said and struggled to get away to tell them.

“Yes, of course, because it was so successful when I told you to stop.”

“Well, that was _you_ , Ro’ney. You’d drive anyone to drink,” he said seriously, and then giggled at Rodney’s blurred, yet clearly fulminating expression.

“Very funny, Major. Now move!”

John turned inwards and nuzzled at Rodney’s neck as they walked. “Major, stop that.”

John ignored him. Rodney tasted warm and soft and kind of green. One of those nice dark greens, rich and full of flavor; not one of those thin, yellowy greens with no secrets or depth.

“Ow! Major! _You_ can explain the hickey to Elizabeth. On second thoughts, I don’t suppose you will even remember it.” Rodney’s voice slowed down at the last sentence, and softened.

John took it as an okay to keep on touching. Rodney’s back was hot and a little damp with sweat; he explored slowly, over Rodney’s protests, the indented line of his spine, smooth, but if he pressed in a little, he could find the vertebrae, the dip of his rib cage narrowing just a little to his waist, and the smooth line of hips curving out into rounded, squeezable ass.

“I said stop!” Rodney jerked away from him, and John swayed in place for a second, then started listing over. He staggered, trying to find his balance, but it appeared to be gone, and he thought sadly about how he must have left it all on its own, back in the bar. It was probably lonely. Maybe he could buy it a drink or two to say sorry. The orange one was nice.

“We should go back,” he said, and stumbled a few steps back up the dirt track towards the town. It twinkled brightly in the distance and he wondered how it had gotten that far away. He blinked and the little lights resolved into torches, not house windows and perspective swooped alarmingly. “Hey, pretty.”

Rodney was beside him again, and the lights went away. He turned his head and discovered them behind them. “Going the wrong way,” he pointed out, helpfully, and tried to twist back around.

“No, we aren’t.” Rodney sounded kind of out of breath, and John peered at him. In the near dark it was kind of hard to tell, but he seemed to be breathing hard, and he looked… kind of messy actually. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re drunk or stoned, but either way, you’re not going back for more.”

“Should get dressed properly,” he chided him, nodding solemnly. “Gonna give people a bad impression.” He tried to tuck Rodney’s shirt back into the front of his pants, and Rodney smacked his hands away.

“Sh’ ge’ desh’ pro’ly or we’re ‘gon gif pe-ul the wrong preshun’, huh?” Rodney said acidly, and John looked sadly at him.

“Just trying to help.”

“Please refrain. Getting groped by the most inebriated military officer it’s ever been my dubious privilege to witness, and I’ve seen a few, trust me, is not my idea of a good time.”

John’s face fell, and Rodney hesitated then wrapped his arm back around his waist.

“Come on, idiot,” he said more kindly, “let’s get you home, okay?”

“You like me!”

“Don’t get over excited Major, I’m just getting you somewhere you can sleep it off. On your own.”

“But Rodney, I like you. We don’t have to go to sleep. We could fuck instead.”

Rodney stumbled. “Give me strength,” he muttered, and tugged harder on John’s waist, half dragging him up the hill. “Oh for a video camera.”

* * *

It took another half hour to get Sheppard back to the puddlejumper, and Rodney’s arms burned with the effort of dragging the man along. Sheppard was barely able to walk, and clung heavily to Rodney’s side, mumbling periodically. Rodney chose to ignore his comments. He carefully lowered him to the floor of the puddle jumper, and when he curled up tightly, eyes closed, and breathing slow and stertorous, tugged a blanket over him.

He'd thought for sure Sheppard was asleep, which was the only reason he'd sat down next to him, just to make sure he didn't have any adverse reactions, and nothing at all to do with staring at the high flush on his cheekbones, or the wild disarray of his hair. If he'd known he was still awake he would have kept out of reach.

Of course, it was too late to move away now. Sheppard kept trying to snuggle into him, and somehow had managed to hook one hand through Rodney's belt. Rodney swallowed and shifted away again. The Major wouldn’t thank him for taking advantage once he sobered up.

“Go to _sleep_ , Major,” he said wearily, for the third time. He unwrapped Sheppard's arm from where it was draped over Rodney's thighs, and ignored the squinted, profoundly reproachful look it got him. Sheppard could pout all he liked: he was drunk as a skunk, and in no fit state for anything. Even if it had been a wrench to push away those inquisitive hands, and let go of the loose limbed warmth that had tried to wind itself round him. He tried to edge away, but John's arm wrapped tightly over his thighs again, and this time he wriggled around until his head was in Rodney's lap.

“Stop movin'," Sheppard said, his voice still blurry from the ridiculous amount of alien booze he'd poured down his gullet. "'mcomf'ble."

McKay sighed, and left his arm where it was. He probably should put the Major into the recovery position, ready for the monumental unwellness that was only too likely to follow. He would too, if he knew exactly what a recovery position entailed. It clearly didn't cure hangovers or every student on the planet -- on planet _earth_ , he corrected himself meticulously -- would have known about it. It probably would mean no puking on his pants though.

He leaned back against the wall of the puddlejumper and yawned. He sort of hoped that Teyla had found somewhere safe for the night. And that Ford wasn't drunk as his CO. It was kind of nice like this, the two of them quiet and safe inside the cloaked puddlejumper. As safe as they could be on any planet in a galaxy inhabited by the Wraith. He could let himself sleep for a while.

John snored softly and Rodney shook his head ruefully at him.

"Dream on, flyboy," he murmured. “If this is what it takes to get you here then maybe it’s worth it.” He checked Sheppard's pulse, which somehow segued into letting his fingers lace into Sheppard’s for just a little while. He yawned again. He should set an alarm. Better not get caught sitting like this, with the CO of Atlantis curled half on his lap. Sheppard shifted and tucked his face into Rodney’s stomach with a happy sort of snuffle, and Rodney dropped his head back against the wall of the puddlejumper with a sigh.

“Just don’t puke in my lap,” he said, but it came out soft and affectionate. His free hand settled on Sheppard’s head, absently petting the soft hair. “You hear me?”

Sheppard snored.

This was going to end in disaster, he just knew it. Sheppard would wake with the hangover from hell, and either not remember, or pretend to not remember, or even worse, just be embarrassed. Nonetheless, he couldn’t move away, instead brushing his hair back, stroking lightly over the flushed cheekbone and closed lashes, so lightly as to not even cause a twitch. He sighed again, and closed his eyes, trying not to think about it too hard.

He'd deal with it all tomorrow. Right now, he'd let the man sleep it off. That was the kind thing to do. And they could pretend tomorrow that it never happened. He scritched his fingers through Sheppard's hair, and let reality drift.


End file.
